The Black Stallion Mystery

by Walter Farley

  Tabari sat down again, and for a fleeting second Alec thought he saw a shadow of deep sorrow flit across her face. Then it was gone and a slow smile crept about her mouth.

  “You must return home with our distinguished guests,” she said sweetly to Abd-al-Rahman, “and see that they are comfortable. It is not often that we are so honored.”

  The Black was attempting to bite the mares again, and Alec pulled him away without taking his eyes off Tabari and her husband. He listened to them talk as if this were some casual meeting in a park at home.

  Abd-al-Rahman smiled patiently at his wife. He looked like a good-humored hawk as he leaned over and patted her hand. “You know the road is dangerous by carriage,” he said. “I like to be with you.”

  In sudden anger Tabari withdrew her hand and said, “Your sitting next to me doesn’t help and Jason knows every foot of the way. It will not be the first time I have traveled it alone.” She sat back, her features set and proud.

  The Sheikh continued smiling. “It’s only that I like to hold your hand along the way,” and he swiftly caught her wrist and held it.

  For a moment they appraised each other in strained silence. Then Tabari smiled archly.

  “I was only thinking of our guests,” she said coquettishly.

  The Sheikh seemed to be turning over in his mind what his wife had said but he did not speak or look away.

  “And it is strange, is it not,” she went on, laughing, “that you let me fly alone but do not trust me on our very own road?”

  Abd-al-Rahman listened as though fascinated. When finally he spoke, however, it was in short sentences. “Go then.” A flush came over his face. “Be careful. Perhaps I never should have taught you to fly.”

  Her eyes opened wide. “But it was you who suggested it!”

  “So I did,” he said glumly. “So I did.” Then, kissing her lightly on the mouth, he stepped out of the carriage. “All right, Jason,” he said to the driver. “Guide your horses well.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Tabari, glancing at Alec and Henry, said, “See that he makes you comfortable, my friends.” Her gaze swept to the Black. “As for Shêtân, his stall has been ready a long, long time.”

  Astonished by Tabari’s parting remark Alec watched the carriage speed across the bridge. What had she meant? He turned to Abd-al-Rahman. “Are we in Arabia?” he asked. “Is that what Tabari meant by saying the Black’s stall was ready for him?”

  The young Sheikh’s eyes followed the fast-moving carriage as he answered, “No, Alec, we’re far from there. This is a stronghold built by Tabari’s ancestors centuries before the Black was ever foaled. He has never been here.”

  Henry spoke. “Just where are we then?”

  “That I cannot tell you, old fellow,” the Sheikh answered. “I have many enemies who would rob me of my horses if they knew.”

  Henry snorted. “A good chance they’d have of finding their way here,” he said.

  By this time the carriage had disappeared in the distance. “You are right of course,” Abd-al-Rahman said kindly, “but only because it has been kept secret for a very long time. It was here that the strongest desert chieftains carried on their most important horse-breeding operations. The grass and water are the best, as you can see. It is also well protected against the winds—” he hesitated, smiled and went on—“and raiding parties. There is nothing to fear here from our enemies yet it is central enough to conduct business.”

  “You must have good horses to make all this worth while,” Henry said.

  The Sheikh’s smile faded. “You should take that for granted, Henry.”

  “I do,” the trainer answered.

  “I know. That’s why you came.”

  “Tell me,” Alec asked quietly, “how do you know so much? What made you expect us?”

  “It’s our business to know anything that has to do with fine horses,” Abd-al-Rahman answered with a half-smile. His sharp gaze shifted to the Black. “He’s as proud as a peacock, isn’t he?”

  Expecting no reply and getting none, the Sheikh started down the road. “Come, please,” he said pleasantly. “It is but a short walk.” His body was lean, tall and straight. His strides were those of a desert hunter, springy and quick.

  They passed through the carved wooden gate, which opened and closed easily on well-oiled hinges, and found themselves on a widespread and gently rolling plain. The grass here, watered by underground springs, was even more lush than outside the wall. Towering shade trees and foliage were thick; the whole place had an air of summer drowsiness, and the great mountain which served as a backdrop added to the serenity of the scene.

  Abd-al-Rahman, glancing back at the gate as if listening for the sound of the carriage, smiled and said, “My wife is like all women. She seeks to love and dominate at the same time. I suppose I have spoiled her, though. There is so little she can do here.”

  “Doesn’t she like it?” Alec asked.

  “She prefers home, Alec, or at least vacations in England where we have many old school friends. This is too isolated for any woman and most men. It is why I insisted upon her learning to fly years ago. Now she escapes like a winged bird and returns as willingly.”

  The road had become a well-attended driveway with white stone fences on the sides separating the plain into field after field. A small band of mares grazed in one pasture and as they approached Alec took firm hold of the Black’s lead shank.

  Henry said quietly, “These are the race mares, Alec.”

  It was as simple as that. From this band had come the Sales yearlings they’d seen in America. Unlike the carriage horses these brood mares were large and tall. They had size without coarseness. The Arabian’s refinement in conformation and head was there for the world to see. From this type of mare the Black, too, had come. Where was the sire?

  BLACK GHOST

  12

  At a turn in the driveway they left the fields behind and soon came upon an enormous stone house rising story after story against the base of the mountain and supported by tall columns. Yet for all its great size there was a softness to it because of the many beautiful gardens which surrounded it. Small fountains played upon statues of animals and birds all made from the same golden-colored stone as the house. There were terraces of flowers ablaze with color, and fish ponds and sparkling, rushing streams. It was an intricate maze of hanging gardens, reservoirs and stonework.

  There were men at work, planting, pruning and caring for these gardens. They stopped to look at Alec and Henry as the group went by. They were curious without being excited, as if visitors were to be expected. Tall and muscular, they had sharp, dark features but there was no Arabic blood in them. They wore the leather clothes of people whose home was in the high mountains. Obviously they were natives of this land, whatever it was.

  Alec and Henry walked slowly beside the young Sheikh, their eyes bewildered at what they saw and their senses captured by the enchantment of the gardens. The air was spiced with scents of flowers and blossoms, and there was no need to ask who had planned these grounds. It had to be Tabari, for her feminine touch was evident everywhere.

  At a fork in the driveway Abd-al-Rahman led them away from the house.

  “Come,” the Sheikh said, “as horsemen you must first see my stables and, of course, care for your horse.”

  Directly ahead a high arch in the shape of a giant horseshoe extended over the road, supported by two statues of rearing horses with water spouting from their mouths. Alec and Henry walked beneath the arch, watching the sunlight sparkle upon the golden-colored horses as the fountains splashed upon them.

  A few minutes’ walk brought them to a bridge spanning a large stream whose rippling-white waters were rushing to reach the lower fields. On the other side of the bridge was a great tent more than a hundred feet long and thirty feet wide. It was open at one end and just within the flaps sat a small group of Arabs around a smoking fire. Alec could smell the coffee that was being made.

&nbs
p; It might have been a scene in Arabia, and Alec looked beyond the tent, almost expecting to see a herd of camels lying on the ground patiently waiting for the caravan to move on. Instead he saw only a small flock of grazing sheep and goats.

  Abd-al-Rahman explained without stopping, “We brought the most chosen of our tribe with us, mostly for work in the fields and stables. Tabari has no use for them in the house … but then they have no use for houses.”

  Just ahead, deep within the shadows of the trees, was a quadrangle of stables. On top of the iron-barred gateway was a stable clock, its long gilt hands pointing almost to noon. The buildings, consisting of only one story each, were of the same golden-colored stone and architecture as the house.

  The Sheikh stopped in the center of the stableyard and addressed Alec. “I’m assuming you want to care for your horse yourself.”

  “Yes,” Alec said. “Where do you want him?”

  “Not here,” Abd-al-Rahman answered. “Not near the mares. Come.”

  He led the way to the other end of the stableyard and through another gate. They went into the forest again, the pine-needled lane rising with the easy slope of the land as it approached the base of the mountain. Near the stream and directly opposite the massive house was a circular barn. Within were three huge stalls. On the door of the largest and most luxurious of all was a small gold plaque of a young boy and a rearing horse, with emeralds for the boy’s eyes and rubies for the horse’s.

  “Who are they?” Alec asked, recalling the statue he had seen earlier.

  For a moment Abd-al-Rahman didn’t answer. He opened the door of the adjacent stall and motioned Alec to take the Black inside. Then he said solemnly, “They are the boy who became one of the greatest tribal leaders of my country, and the horse of his young dreams. His name was Barjas ben Ishak, an ancestor of Tabari. He died in 1689.”

  “Without ever finding his dream horse?” Henry asked, anxious to keep the Sheikh talking. He followed Alec into the Black’s stall. There was hay in the rack and a sack of feed below it.

  “Yes,” Abd-al-Rahman told Henry. “But he raised many fine horses. The best one of all occupied that particular stall. It is not unusual in my country, you know, to choose one horse to idolize even though we may have hundreds. It was so in the case of Barjas ben Ishak.”

  Alec listened to the conversation while tending his horse. He thought of the big, empty stall next door, bedded down and waiting, just as this one had been … for what stallion if not the Black?

  Henry was prodding Abd-al-Rahman further. “Then it was Barjas ben Ishak who built this place?”

  “Yes. In those days, even more so than now, the strongest tribes were those with the finest horses. Their lives depended upon the speed and stamina of their mounts.”

  Alec left the Black’s stall. The sun was shining upon the gold plaque on the adjacent door and the jeweled eyes seemed to be winking at him realistically. He found it difficult to turn away.

  “His were a wandering people,” the Sheikh went on, “not only from desire but from necessity as well. They needed fertile pastures and good climate for their stock. And then, too, his greatest fear was that his best horses would be stolen. He watched over them as he never did his family. He knew their genealogy from the days of Mohammed and sometimes even before that.”

  Alec turned from the shining figures of the boy and horse and went to the Black again, making sure he had left nothing undone. The stall was large and the bedding thick. The Black had been watered and was whiffing his feed.

  Abd-al-Rahman continued, “It was on one of his long journeys north that he heard of this protected mountain plain. Later he brought his finest mares and stallions and built this stronghold. He was confident that if left in peace he would some day produce the stallion of his boyhood dreams, one whose speed would be that of the desert winds and who would sire equally fast colts.”

  “But he didn’t,” Henry interjected, for the Sheikh had turned away and the trainer didn’t want the conversation to end. It was just getting interesting.

  Abd-al-Rahman was looking into the empty stall. “No,” he finally said, “but Tabari’s father did, centuries later, and using the same foundation stock. He named the young stallion Ziyadah and this is his stall.”

  The name was not unfamiliar to Alec and Henry. In Arabic it meant superb in speed. And Ziyadah had been the Black’s sire.

  “You mean was his stall, don’t you?” Henry corrected. “Ziyadah is dead. It says so in the books.”

  “No, he is very much alive,” the Sheikh answered, his dark eyes sweeping over the mountain ridges. “He runs high and fast, so fast that his tail appears to catch on fire. The natives call him Firetail but we know it is our Ziyadah!”

  There was a long moment of silence. Then Henry asked, “Why are you so sure?”

  “Because of the yearlings we sent to America. They were his. Only Ziyadah could stamp his colts in such a way. Truly you are not surprised! Is that not why you and Alec are here? When you looked upon those colts did you not know they came from the same mold as the Black? We knew you would attempt to find their sire.”

  “And now that we are here?” Alec questioned.

  The tall man smiled for the first time. “Now that you are here, Alec, I hope that you and the Black will help me catch Ziyadah!”

  The black stallion pushed his head over the stall door, his nostrils swelling as he looked toward the stables beyond. But it was Henry who snorted.

  “One moment you say you know it’s Ziyadah because he sired the Sales yearlings and now you’re asking our help to catch him! How’d you breed the mares?”

  “They were pasture bred.”

  “If Ziyadah runs in the mountains how’d he reach your fields? Your end wall must be thirty feet high.”

  “We don’t know.”

  “Has he been back since?”

  “No, or we might have caught him. We’ve been waiting.”

  The mountain silence was broken by a loud shout, then a man’s whistle, followed by the dull rumble of running hoofs. The mares were being brought in from the fields. The Black whinnied.

  “Come, you are tired and hungry,” Abd-al-Rahman said graciously. “Your horse is safe. He will not be bothered for none of our people are allowed here. It was so willed by Tabari’s father upon his death.”

  Alec looked questioningly at a nearby chair with a blanket across it. Overhead hung a black-and-gold braided halter and lead rope.

  Following the boy’s gaze, Abd-al-Rahman said, “It is only the chair of old Nazar, the mute whom Tabari is taking home. It was he who took care of this barn and of Ziyadah as a colt. It was he who set him free.”

  They started down the lane toward the stables.

  “Intentionally?” Alec asked.

  “No. Nazar was most devoted to Tabari and her father. They were the only ones who could read his face and signs. Despite his age and muteness Nazar had no equal in the care of horses. That is why Abu Ishak put him in charge of his most prized colt.”

  “Then how’d he let Ziyadah break away from him?” Henry asked.

  “Nazar had lavished much love and attention on the young horse,” Abd-al-Rahman answered. “Tabari says that Ziyadah followed him around as would a bodyguard. Often he would race in a circle about Nazar until one would have thought the thunder of his hoofs would have broken the old man’s lifelong silence.”

  “But how’d he get away?” Henry persisted.

  “I’m coming to that,” the Sheikh said patiently. “It seems that Abu Ishak was worried because Ziyadah had started jumping very high and none of the pasture fences could hold him. He therefore ordered the old man to hobble him for fear the young stallion would rake his belly on the stones and become fatally injured. To Nazar this was like clipping the wings of a hawk, so unknown to Abu Ishak he would set Ziyadah free for a while each night. One night the young stallion did not return to him. He has waited all these years, keeping his stall fresh and his halter ready.”


  “No one saw Ziyadah leave the fields?” Alec asked incredulously.

  Abd-al-Rahman shook his head. “It is said that the night riders heard the thunder of his hoofs and that there was a trail of sparks as of horseshoes striking flint. One rider said he saw Ziyadah going over the end wall but that of course was impossible.”

  “Unless he had wings,” Henry mumbled.

  “When did the natives first see him after his escape?” Alec asked thoughtfully.

  “Shortly after Abu Ishak’s death. It is ironical, is it not, that he did not live to know that Ziyadah was not dead after all? He and Tabari had returned to Arabia certain of the young stallion’s death, for the bones of a horse had been found in a deep abyss.”

  “And the natives call him Firetail?” Alec asked, recalling the fiery horse he and Henry had seen the night before.

  “Yes, but he is Ziyadah. Of that I’m sure.”

  “If he sired those colts you’re right,” Alec agreed quietly.

  BLACK HEAT

  13

  Abd-al-Rahman’s home was like the kind found in a fairy tale, complete with towers and brilliantly colored windows of tinted glass. The Sheikh and Alec and Henry climbed a double flight of stone stairs, stopping before an arched front door. Two English footmen in the familiar black-and-gold livery and wearing white gloves opened it.

  Alec hung back, awed by the splendor within, but Henry followed close at the Sheikh’s heels. Opening doors, the footmen walked ahead through richly colored rooms with luxurious divans and walls covered with intricate tapestries of carved designs and figures.

  The atmosphere was that of ancient Arabia and it reached out and enveloped Alec. Yet he saw too the changes made by Tabari’s youthful hands. From the gilt ceilings hung crystal chandeliers. The furniture was modern, more English than Arabian, and a hidden phonograph played soft string music.